


Just One More Day

by Rakuyou_Tenshi (Citrus_Luver)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Diners, Angst, Character Death, Euthanasia, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:50:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5021791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citrus_Luver/pseuds/Rakuyou_Tenshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Jim and Bones don't end up on that shuttle to the Academy but still meet anyways.</p>
<p>Jim doesn’t join Starfleet after Pike challenges him.  He’s too angry and bitter.  Instead he runs as far as possible from his destiny until he ends up in Georgia and on the doorstep of one Leonard McCoy.  Unbeknownst to Jim, Leonard also almost joined Starfleet after his marriage disastrously imploded.</p>
<p>These are the three years Jim and Leonard spend together before the battle of Vulcan and Earth…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Year 1**

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“You know your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother’s and yours. I dare you to do better.”

_Better_ …

Jim Kirk scoffed. Better was something that he wasn’t. He was a washout, a no body. His best accomplishment might as well be the ‘only genius level repeat offender in the Midwest’. Even Pike figured that out just from briefly glancing at his records.

_Fuck that old man._

He didn’t know anything. He, like everyone else, only saw him as Lieutenant Commander/ Acting Captain George Kirk’s son. A man he didn’t even know but was constantly being compared to.

_Fuck them all._

Jim clenched the starship shaped salt shaker in his hand even tighter. Its life size counterpart with all of its innards exposed to the warm late summer wind and its metallic casing glistened even at this distance. Jim could tell she would be a beauty. She was already a beauty, but Pike was wrong. He didn’t belong in the stars, and ... _fuck…_ he definitely didn’t belong in fucking Starfleet. Starfleet was everything that he didn’t want to be associated with. Starfleet killed his father and then later took his mother.

He rubbed his hand under his bloodied nose. He flinched. It still stung.

Cupcake with his monster sized fists had broken it. Stupid kid would make a decent enough security officer. Jim had thought it would be an easy battle like all of his other bar fights. He must have taken one drink too many. His head still felt stuffy and full.

He wasn’t going to join Starfleet. He wasn’t. Pike didn’t know anything. He wasn’t his father’s son.

Jim spat out a mouthful of saliva intermixed with blood before turning on the balls of his heels. He pocketed the salt shaker into the inner breast pocket of his leather jacket. He mounted his motorcycle, kicked up the brake stand before placing his fingers around the handle bars..

Captain Pike wasn’t going to determine his future.

He would make his own future. Jim tightened his grip. His motorcycle roared to life.   As the first light appeared in the horizon, Jim Kirk rode into the distance… not to Starfleet, not the destiny that Captain Pike believed in, but to a destiny that he was going to make for himself.              

 

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Everything in Jim’s life involved around spontaneity, so the farther he got from Riverside the more he realized he really didn’t know where he was going. Initially, his only plan was to place as much distance between Riverside Shipyard and himself.   So much distance that he couldn’t possibly make that 0800 departure for San Francisco. Because even though Jim Kirk didn’t want to join Starfleet, he equally did not know what to do with his life. As a result, Jim found himself riding further and further southeast.

Granddad Tiberius had once shown him pictures of the Atlantic Ocean with its glistening blue oceans and beautiful white sand beaches. Jim had never seen the ocean, and best of all it would be far away from Riverside and Starfleet.

He slept on the side of the old highways and ate in retro diners. He ate hamburgers and drank milkshakes on bar stools. With the advent of hover cars, these old roads that interlinked the country together became an almost forgotten remnant of a bygone era. As result, it naturally bred a small population of men and women, who found modern technology and conveniences to be too off putting. Those people found havens along these old roads.

It was also exactly what Jim Kirk needed. It was away from the trouble that always seemed to follow him. Unfortunately, this also meant that fuel was harder to locate and with his vintage bike it was even more problematic. It couldn’t rely on solar or wind energy.

He had been lucky the first two days. Even in middle of nowhere Arkansas, he had found fuel. It wasn’t until almost nightfall, as he entered the outskirts of Atlanta, that he remembered seeing a sign with the old faded words of ‘Marietta’ a few kilometers back. Even as he rode through the streets of this sleepy town, he could see that Marietta had never upgraded into the current era. The few buildings he saw; they were few and far in between, were reminiscent of the old South’s plantation.    

So when his bike finally gave out, he wasn’t surprised. His luck, which was rarely on his side, seemed to finally give out. His only consolation was he could see a large plantation home looming in the distance off the side of the road. It was large and white. It was formidable. He could even see lights twinkling from the upper floors. Jim sighed as he got off his bike.   He draped his leather jacket over the handle bars of his bike.

At least this part of Georgia was flat. He half pushed and half shoved his bike up the dirt pavement.   The ground was hard. He could audibly hear the ground splitting in half which each step that he took. It hadn’t rained in a long time. The grass was less green, and the flowers less vibrated.

He pushed open the gate leading to the plantation. It was well oiled and well cared for. The difference between the two sides of the gate was almost like night and day. The owners were meticulous. The trees and bushes inside the property were all well cared for. They were all trimmed to an even level. Hell, even the road leading to the plantation was well paved.

He let out a soft whistle upon arriving at the front of the main house. It was a white house with a wrap-around porch. He noticed the wicker rocking chairs swaying to the warm Georgian wind.   There was a matching table nearby. Some of the windows on the second floor were open. The blinds fluttered in the wind. He noticed a dark shadow disappearing behind a set of blinds as he leaned his bike against the railing.

He hated asking for help, but when he eyed his bike, Jim sighed and made the rest of the way up to the porch. There was an old golden lion head shaped door knocker hanging in the center of the door. Jim shrugged before pulling on the bottom jaw. It was a strange design.   Jim was surprised by how loud the sound that resonated was. It seemed to nearly vibrate the whole house. He heard the sound of rustling followed by loud banging sounds.

“Comin’,” a voice called.

Moments later the door opened, and Jim Kirk was greeted by a little old lady with snow white hair. Her back was as curved as the old cypress trees he had seen in holo pictures.

Her face was heavily wrinkled. It reminded Jim of the faces he sometimes saw on old weeping willows. She looked to be approaching her century old birthday.   However it was her eyes.   She had the darkest set of chocolate brown eyes that he had ever seen. She was leaning on a heavily knobbed walking stick.

She seemed to positively glare up at him for a long moment. Jim Kirk had been stared down by men and women twice this tiny woman’s size. He was proud to say he had never run away from any of those encounters. However at that moment, all he wanted to do was bolt. He took a step backwards. He scratched the back of his neck, nervously before flashing his million credit smile.  

“Hullo, ma’am.”

She blinked once before reaching into her side pocket. Guns had been outlawed by the government since first contact. However, Jim vaguely wondered if these laws applied in the Deep South. However, she didn’t draw out a gun or a phaser but a pair of old deep red rimmed glasses.  

Jim wanted to laugh. She placed them on her face. She looked at him once, then twice, before turning around. She pulled the door open wider. “Len!” She shouted. It positively rattled the large vases lining the entrance way.   “You have a patient.”

He heard more banging and a large thump from upstairs. The old lady rolled her eyes. “Well, come on in boy.”

“I…” Jim started.   He hadn’t expected to be welcomed in. He looked down at his boots. There was a layer of a dried mud crusted around the side and most likely the sole of his shoes.   He rubbed his nose. He winched at the pain.

Damn, it must be broken.

“I’ve lived with doctors all my life, and that’s what you need, boy.” She said simply.

He scratched the back of his neck again. It was true that he probably did need his nose set; however, he also didn’t have a credit to his name. He wondered if she was part psychic when she patted his arm. “We’ll figure something out, boy.”

Jim nodded.   He toed off his boots and left them by the door. She nodded at him, a pleased smile on her face. “Your momma taught you manners.”

Jim didn’t bother to correct her.   He followed her deeper into the house. Jim noticed the large paintings lining the walls.   They all looked to be oil paintings. The ones closer to the entrance looked to be hundreds of years old. Each painting was a family portrait. Jim could easily identify the era they were painted in by the clothes the people wore. At the very end of the row, Jim could tell it was the newest painting.   Like all the other ones, the mother and the father sat on an old Victorian couch. On the mother’s lap was a little girl with chocolate brown curls and dressed in a white sundry dress. However, it was the little boy in a white and blue sailor suit that caught Jim’s eyes. The little boy had the darkest of brown hair that was almost black and a pair of stunning hazel eyes. They were a myriad of browns, gold and greens.   However, most of all he had the most beautiful smile on his face, a smile that rivaled Jim’s own when he wanted to smile, really smile, which was almost near.  

“That’s my grandson, Len.”

Jim positively jumped. He turned his head. The little old lady looked at him and then back at painting. The smile on her face seemed to have faltered a bit. Jim was suddenly reminded of the expression he frequently saw on his own mother’s face when she looked at him.   However, Jim knew that in those moments, she wasn’t seeing him but her dead husband.

_Len…_

Wasn’t that the name she had called out moments before?    

“You called, Gram?” A new voice entered the equation.

Jim whipped his head around. In the doorway, framed by the glow of what Jim could only assume to be coming from the dining room, was the selfsame boy in the painting, now grown into a man, a man with the deepest scowl that Jim had ever seem.

As he stepped into the foyer, Jim noticed that as much as he didn’t fit in this house, this man standing in front of him also didn’t fit. His dark brown hair was unruly and unkempt. His shirt was equally so. He positively glared at Jim, and Jim was positive that it wasn’t because he also had poor eyesight.

The man stepped forward. His face was millimeters from Jim’s. Jim could smell the musty clothes and the alcohol that stained his breath.   “You’re a fucking mess kid,” the man finally spoke again.

“Thanks,” Jim said warily. It seemed this whole family was made of critics.        

“Well, don’t just stand there gawking,” the other grouched. He turned on his heels and marched back into the room he had entered from.

Jim glanced over at the older woman. She smiled apologetically at him.

“Len’s not usually this bad.” She said softly.

“You coming, kid? I ain’t got all day,” the unruly doctor shouted. Jim guessed he was a doctor. When Jim entered the room, it was the dining room. He found the other standing next to a long wooden table that could seat twelve people. There was a medical bag on the table. The doctor had his arms crossed. There was a deep scowl on his face that seemed to get deeper and deeper with each passing second. He tapped the closest chair. “Sit.”

Jim quickly complied. He parked himself in the chair. However when the other man ran his fingers over Jim’s nose, he was surprised how gentle his touch was. His fingers barely gazed his wounded flesh. Jim found himself drowning in the man’s eyes. There were more colors in them than had been captured in the oil painting hanging on the wall.

He tracked the doctor’s movements.

He watched as the man made an ice bag from a rag that was hanging on the wall. Jim watched as the doctor fold it meticulously into a small bundle before returning. The doctor pressed it against his nose. Jim let out a low hiss. He drew up Jim’s right hand to replace it with his own. “Hold,” he commanded.

Jim nodded his head; however, even that slight movement stung.  

He pulled out a medical tricorder from the bag and ran it over Jim’s body. It beeped seconds later. There was a frown on his face. He tapped his feet against the floorboards. He set the tricorder down then nudged Jim’s hand that held the ice pack. Jim dropped his hand, the ice pack cradled in his hands.

“This is going to hurt.” The doctor said offhandedly.

He tracked the doctor’s hands. They were steady and sure unlike the backwater doctors he sometimes went to. More times than not, Jim gave himself first aid as a result. Not only were most of them incompetent both additionally they were extremely judgmental. They all saw him as a wash out, a waste of space and air.      

He watched as the doctor placed his hands on both sides of Jim’s face before resting his thumbs against the two sides of his nose close to the ridge. “Take a deep breath, kid. This is gonna hurt,” he added as if it was an afterthought.

“Not afraid of pain,” he replied defensively.

“Didn’t say you were,” the doctor responded. “I’m going to set it on three.”

Jim nodded. He took a deep breath.

“One…” The doctor counted.

Jim saw the deep concentration in the other’s eyes. He felt the pressure, the loud crack before he saw stars. “Fuck!” He cried out as the doctor dropped his hands. He looked up at him. His sapphire blue eyes watered furiously.

“What the fuck man! I thought you said on three.”

The doctor just laughed. “Learned over the years that it’s easier to set bones when the patient is less aware. Keep that ice pack on it.” He said before turning around.

Jim obediently placed the ice bag back against his nose. It surprisingly didn’t hurt this time. He watched as the other man pulled out two cups from the cabinet. He hesitated a moment before calling out. “Gram, you want a cup?”

Jim heard a few banging sounds from upstairs then a door opening. “No Len, I’m going to bed. Mind your manners.” She called out.

Jim smirked. He set the bag down. He cradled it in his hands. “So Len?” He tried out the name. It seemed strange. Jim wasn’t sure he liked it. It didn’t fit the nearly two meter tall man in front of him. However, it did match that smiling, happy boy in the painting hanging in the hallway.

The doctor spun around after reaching for something from the cabinet. Jim wondered if he had forgotten that he was still there. He was holding a bottle of what liked old Tennessee whiskey. “It’s Leonard, Leonard McCoy.”  

Jim pulled a face. He was definitely not calling the man either Len or Leonard, and McCoy was just as ‘old’ sounding. “Ouch.”

The doctor shrugged. “Old southern name.”

“Your whole house seems… old.”

The doctor shrugged. “Been in the family. What’s your name, kid?”

Jim rolled his eyes; however, he did accept the glass of whiskey the doctor handed to him. He looked at it questionably.

He shrugged. “It’s medicinal…”

At that moment, Jim decided he had met a kindred spirit. He smiled brightly. “Damn, where have you been my whole life?” He sipped the whiskey. It was warm and burned going down in all the right ways.

The doctor rolled his eyes. However, Jim could see the tug of what looked to be a smile on the corners of his lips, and Jim decided he liked that too.

“It’s Jim Kirk.” Jim supplied.

The doctor raised another eyebrow.

“My name.”

The doctor nodded. He set his glass down. “So Jim.” Jim saw how the doctor seemed to be testing his name on his lips.   “Why did you end up on Gram’s doorsteps?”

He had forgotten about his bike. He wondered how he forgotten so easily or fallen into conversation with this doctor so easily. More peculiarly as he glanced at the old grandfather clock with its large pendulum swaying in the corner, Jim wondered how he managed to spend so long in one place without getting into another fight. He glanced at the window. It had gotten completely dark in the interim.

“My bike… I was wondering if I could borrow some gasoline for my bike.” Jim explained. “I’ll pay you back,” he added quickly. He didn’t want the doctor to think he was a complete charity case.

“Kid, you don’t look like you have a credit to your name,” the doctor drawled out. He tapped his fingers against the side of his glass. “I wish I could help you out, but the only gas station even remotely close to here is closed for the night.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Jim watched as he glanced at him one more time. “Oh damn.” The doctor poked him in the ribs. “You better not be one of those serial killers or something.”

Jim laughed. He had been called many things in his life, but this was a new one.

He set his glass down on the table. “Gram will probably kill me for this, but she’ll equally kill me if she finds out I turned you out.” The doctor pulled on his arm.

Jim blinked.

“Christ, are you dumb?”

Jim blinked again.

“Gram has plenty of empty rooms. You’re kilometers away from any suitable lodging and your readings show you’re partially concussed.” Jim hissed. “As a doctor, I have moral obligations to not kick you out.”

Damn, this man was ornery. He had never met anyone this angry before.   He wondered what had caused so much anger.

Still, Jim hopped out of the chair and followed the doctor deeper into the house. The décor didn’t get any better or modern the further inside the house they went.   The whole house reminded Jim of one of those old houses from the long distant past. He was surprised anyone would have kept so many antiques and in such pristine condition.

They eventually reached a room on the third floor. At least Jim assumed it was the third floor. He felt like he had lost count at some point after the fifth turn. The house seemed much bigger on the inside than it had ever looked on the outside.

The doctor opened the door for him. The room was sparsely furnished. There was a double poster bed in the middle of the room. There was a large cabinet made of ash leaning against one of the walls. The doctor flipped the switch near the door. Jim was surprised it wasn’t voice controlled.

He blinked as the fluorescent lighting turned on. Nobody used fluorescent lights anymore. Jim wondered where they even found the light bulbs.

“I guess you don’t have any extra clothes.” He looked down at the dried blood that ran down his front. It wasn’t a question, and Jim didn’t volunteer an answer. “The bathroom is through that door.” The doctor pointed at another pair of double doors.

Jim scratched the back his neck and toed the back of his right foot with his left. “Thanks.” He mumbled.

The doctor left soon afterwards. Jim wandered into the bathroom. He flipped on the switch and was surprised at how fairly normal and modern the bathroom was. It didn’t match the décor of the rest of the house.

He quickly noted that the shower had both a water and a sonic settling.

_Of fucking course._

He wondered if it had more to do with them being a family of doctors. He pulled off his shirt with one quick motion. He hissed as the cloth touched his still sore neck. He grimaced at the large bruises on his chest. He wondered if he should sneak downstairs and try to locate that medical bag in the dining room; however, he wasn’t sure he would be able to find the room again without getting horribly lost.

_Whatever…_

He would worry about that later. His shirt smiled horrible. He could only wonder how badly he smelled. He tossed his shirt on the ground before pulling off his socks, pants and underwater. He turned on the shower. A fine mist of hot water ran down.   He stepped into the shower and closed the door.

God, it felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time he had showered. He guessed it had to be before that night in the dingy bar in Riverside where Pike challenged him to do better. Jim suddenly felt lousy. He picked up the bar of soap and scrubbed it hard over his body.   Jim watched as the sweat, the grim, and the dirt washed away down the drain.

It was only after the water had run cold that Jim stepped out of the shower. It was only after he wrapped himself with the towel that he realized he never asked the doctor about borrowing clothes. He couldn’t help but smile when he noticed a set of clothes on the bed.   It seemed the doctor had returned while he was showering.        

When Jim finally crawled under the sheets, he slept longer and deeper than he had for days.

 


	2. Chapter 2

While in a different part of the large southern plantation, Leonard McCoy laid in his own bed.  He pillowed his arms beneath his head and looked up at the ceiling.  The same ceiling he had stared at for eighteen years of life before he went off to medical school, before his life went to hell.  All of which sprung from one name, Pamela Branch, the ex-Mrs. Leonard McCoy.

His life seemed to have a way of throwing women at him who were destined to destroy and trample his heart.  First, there was Jocelyn Darnell, his high school sweetheart.  They had never made it to the altar, and it was probably for the better.  The last he heard, she really had married Clay Treadway, poor guy.  Jocelyn was a scary woman.

However when he married Pamela, Leonard had never imagined just how cunning and conniving she could be.  He glanced over at the PADD that was glowing in the darkened room. The PADD contained the finalizations for his divorce. 

She didn’t even have the audacity to tell him she wanted a divorce.  They didn’t talk or even try to salvage the marriage. 

Leonard scoffed. 

These days he wasn’t sure there had much to salvage.  They had married young and fast.  Everything about their relationship had been fast.  It felt like a whirlwind looking back. 

He wondered how long she had been planning the divorce.  Even when he was first served the papers, he hadn’t paid much attention to the demands.  Hell, he had attended the court hearing in his scrubs and brought along the first lawyer on the list of names that was attached to the hospital. 

As a result, Pamela took everything in the divorce: the car, the house, and all their belongings, even the goddamn Vulcan artwork that had been a present from some aunt he had never been partial to.  Leonard rubbed the ridge of his nose.   

_So much for his new beginning..._

It wasn’t as if he was actually serious about _that_ either, and if the only reason he wasn’t currently in San Francisco signing his life away was because of a faulty alarm clock.  Well, who could Leonard argue with?   It was obviously fate.

_Goddamn it._

He rolled over onto his side.  His last thought before he feel asleep was on the kid with the too goddamn bright blue eyes who looked like he was carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.  

But it wasn’t like the kid was going to stay long. 

Damn kid didn’t fit into Marietta. 

He fell asleep to the nagging feeling that he also didn’t belong in Marietta.  That maybe he never really belonged in Marietta either.

**************

Leonard stumbled into the kitchen the next morning.   He was reaching for a mug in the cabinet when an all too cheerful voice broke the silence.

“Morning Bones.” 

Nobody should be this cheerful this early in the morning.

Leonard whipped around.  There was a scowl on his face.  Anyone knew him knew not to mess with Leonard McCoy before he took a sip of his morning coffee.

He was met by the startled face of the kid, Jim?  Jim Kirk?  Leonard vaguely remembered the kid introducing himself.  He had been a little out of it the night before.  However, even thru his beadily, sleep deprived, field of vision he could tell that the kid cleaned up well.   Without the dried blood, the bruises, Leonard vaguely wondered if Gram had given the kid the dermal regenerator, and the dirt, he looked pretty damn good. 

Leonard decidedly looked away.

“Thanks for the clothes, Bones.”

Bones, it was that word again.

He thought he had heard wrong the first time the word slipped from the kid’s lips.  However, now it was twice.   The kid definitely said ‘bones’. 

He poured himself a cup of the freshly brewed coffee, took a long sip, before asking. 

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.  “Bones?”

The kid beamed.  He fucking beamed at him.  “I told you last night, Leonard is too old.  Len is too ‘cute’.”  Leonard almost choked at that comment.  Leonard could positively see the air quotes appearing around the word ‘cute’.

“Tell Gram that,” he grouched.

The kid smiled.  “She’s a grandma.  Grandmas are allowed the cute things.”

Leonard pulled out a chair.  He settled himself in it.  The kid slid him a plate of breakfast.  He recognized the breakfast immediately.  Bacon, scrambled eggs, and southern grits, Gram had outdone herself.  Despite closing in on her centennial birthday with each passing year, Elizabeth McCoy was definitely the picture perfect definition of southern hospitality.

 “So ‘bones’?”  He repeated again.

The kid took a bite of his bacon before nodding.  “Yeah, you’re a doctor.”

Leonard couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.  However, even that couldn’t fully convey his confusion.

The kid laughed.  “Bones… sawbones…”

“Sawbones?”  He repeated.  The word seemed extremely archaic. 

“Yeah, in the past, on the war front, war doctors were forced to saw off the bones of injured soldiers as their only hope, so people started calling doctors, sawbones.”  Jim waved his fork in the air.

Great, damn kid was a history nut.  That was exactly what he needed.  Wait till Granddad met him.

Leonard pulled a face.  “And you think that makes a good name?”

Jim shrugged his shoulders.  “Actually, it’s because you look like you’re all skin and bones, Bones.  Like all you got left are your bones.”

Leonard stopped eating at that moment.  He looked at the kid curiously.  He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t even a little angry at the kid’s bluntness. 

Maybe it was because… damn kid was more correct than he wanted to admit.

“Why do you say that?”

The kid pulled a face.  He stabbed into another strip of bacon.  He looked a little guilty.  “Just a feeling…” he mumbled.

They ate in silence for a while after that.  Leonard watched as the kid ate his breakfast.  He ate as if this was his last meal.  He watched the way his jaws moved as he chewed.  He noticed the lines and the indents and blemishes on the kid’s cheeks and chin.  They seemed even more pronounced now than they were last night. 

He couldn’t understand how in an era of dermal regenerators anyone’s skin could be so imperfect. 

Wherever this kid came from, it was clear he was uncared for. Just a little care and attention could have prevented all of this.     

“Bones?”

He looked up, startled.  “What?” 

The kid scratched the back of his neck.  “Wondering where that closest gas station is.”

“Too far to walk.”  Leonard stabbed his fork into a strip of bacon.   He chewed it before continuing.  “I’ll take you in Granddad’s truck.  Should be able to fit your bike in the back.” 

“Don’t want to trouble you.  Don’t you have to work?  It’s…”  The kid laughed.  “Damn, don’t even know what day of the week it is anymore let alone the date.”

“It’s a Saturday, August 17th, 2233.”

“I know the year Bones.”

“Just making sure, what with your bike being an antique, I thought you were one of those fabled ‘time travelers’ or something.”

The kid rolled his eyes. 

_Amateur, the kid had a lot to learn._

“I like old things.”  He licked his lips and fluttered his long eye lashes.  He smirked.

_Great, god damn kid was a flirt too._

“You can’t take this much man, kid.”  

“Try me.”

“No thanks, kid.”  Leonard smirked.  He took another bite of bacon before continuing.  “You look like you’re not even out of your diapers yet.”

“God, Bones, you wound me.”  Leonard rolled his eyes as Jim mimed taking a blow to the heart. 

_Great…_

Kid was a drama queen and a pain in the ass.

However as the kid reached over and collected his plate, the edge of his lips that Gram always complained had hardened into a forever frown, slowly curled upwards.

The kid might be a pain, but maybe he was a good pain.


	3. Chapter 3

“No amount of gas is going to get this bike running again, Kid.”

_Seriously though, what was up with people in this town calling him kid?_

He was twenty-two.  He was old enough to drink, old enough to vote and old enough to die for the Federation.

Jim ignored the ‘kid’ comment. 

He eyed the mechanic standing in front of him.  The man had a large pot belly that poked out from underneath his wife beater.  He had a large, synthetic leather tool belt wrapped around his expanded waistline.  He was the fucking cliché image of a car mechanic.  However, he was also the type that probably didn’t know the difference between a transmission and a muffler.  He doubted this man had even seen an archaic bike.  They didn’t run like the modern hover bikes.  They were reliable and sturdy.  They could last for years.

He looked over at Bones.  He couldn’t believe that Bones had waited while the mechanic diagnosed his bike after it refused to start even when he filled it with gas.

Bones had shrugged his shoulders and drawled out that ‘Gram, would kill him if she ever found out he stranded him here’. 

Jim couldn’t imagine that little old woman killing anyone, but he simply shrugged his shoulders.  Now, he was grateful that Bones hadn’t abandoned him.

It seemed Marietta was more spread out than fucking Riverside.  He had never expected that to be possible.  It seemed here people valued their privacy and land more than even those in the north. 

‘Joe’s Shop’, which was actually original, since it seemed nobody here was named Joe, was buried in the center of fields and fields of crops.   Jim wasn’t sure how anyone who wasn’t familiar with Marietta’s layout could have possibly found this place.  It probably explained why it was so rundown and empty.

However that could also be explained by the fact that most people didn’t use gas anymore.  Hover cars and bikes were all mainly run by electricity and solar energy. 

“Why’s that mister?”

“Ain’t no mister,” the mechanic said.  He scratched his armpit.  The guy had a small jungle growing there.  Jim quickly looked away.  “Your engine is shot.”

Damn, he probably shouldn’t have taken that gas from that last station.  He should have trusted his damn intuition.   

“How much to fix it?”

The mechanic laughed.  He fucking bent over laughing.  Jim watched as the man clutched his round belly and bellowed outwards. 

Most times Jim would have punched anyone who dared to laugh at him.  He wasn’t sure why he held himself back.  Maybe because… Bones was there. 

_Fuck, why did he care?_

He never cared before.

_Fuck this shit._

Jim clenched his fist.  He felt a hand set itself on his shoulder.  He whipped around on the balls of his heels, both of his fists held in a defensive position.  He was met by the frown of one Leonard McCoy.  The man raised an eyebrow.  Beside that Bones didn’t say anything.  He simply placed his hand over Jim’s.  The tension immediately left him. 

He shifted his gaze to where Bones’ other hand was located.  The hand slid away.  However Bones still stayed close.

“Sorry,” it seemed the mechanic realized what had almost happened.  Maybe he wasn’t stupid, for he definitely didn’t mention what had almost and did transpire.  “You’d be better off just buying a new bike.  It’ll be nearly impossible to get a replacement engine for this bike.  They haven’t made this bike for…”

Jim waved his hand.  “Over two hundred years, I know.”

“Impressed it still runs, but it has run its course, Kid.”

“You said nearly impossible.  That means you can fix it.”  Jim stated.

_Damn, he wasn’t going to lose this bike._

_It was…_

“Well,” the man smirked.  “With enough credits and time anything is possible.”

“How much?”

The man scoffed.  “More than you could possibly have, kid.”

“How much?” Jim asked again.

“A few hundred thousand credits.”

_Fuck._

It wasn’t that he didn’t have that many credits.  Starfleet may have cost him his parents, but that didn’t mean that they didn’t take care of him.  He was the son of a hero.  It wasn’t until many years later that Jim had learned that Starfleet had been started a reparation account for him.  

On his eighteenth birthday, they had sent an officer to transfer the funds over to him.  He remembered the look the officer had given him at the time.  That might have been one of the reasons he would never join Starfleet.  He remembered the sheer contempt in the man’s eyes as he asked Jim for his fingerprints.   It was the same look he frequently received.  How could George Kirk, hero of the Federation, have produced such a deadbeat son?

He saw the look on the officer’s face when he realized that Jim wasn’t alone in that dingy hotel room in Iowa City.  He pointedly looked away when his naked female partner paraded across the room, kissed him on the cheek, before disappearing into the bathroom. 

 Jim had taken the funds and shown the officer out of the hotel room.  He was only later, after he wasn’t so drunk, so satiated by sex and adrenaline that he had properly looked at the account.  It was only then… that tiny part of himself that he always wondered about for his whole life was confirmed. 

His mother didn’t have to work.  She didn’t have leave him behind with abusive Frank.  Her excuse had always been she had to provide for them. 

‘Maybe next time Starfleet won’t station me so far away, Jimmy.’

‘I’ll try to get a better posting next time, Jimmy.’

No, she never had to leave them.  There was enough funds for her and fuck… for him to never have to work.

However Jim Kirk was a stubborn man, and he had long stopped counting on other people to solve his problems.  He decided he would never use that money for himself. 

The amount he had, it was more than enough to pay for a new engine ten times over.  All he would have to do was swipe his finger and type in a few digits, and he could get away from this town.  He could go to the East coast and…

His plan stopped there.  He never really thought about what he would do when he got there.     

He figured the mechanic took his silence as confirmation for his lack of funds.  He watched as the mechanic walked back into his dingy little shop.  Jim was tempted to open his mouth and tell him to wait.  He kind of wanted to see the other man’s reaction when the funds went through.  It was only because he felt Bones’ strong hand on his shoulder that stopped him.  “Kid.”

Jim turned around. 

Bones sighed.  “It’s almost harvest season…”

“Bones, I ain’t looking for charity here.”

“And I ain’t giving it to you.  Gram’s getting old, and Granddad won’t be back till after the harvest season.  The crops need harvesting.  I don’t know how soon you need to get wherever you’re going, but I’m sure Gram could work something out for you.”

“Bones, I’m a stranger.”

“Yet, you still gave me this ridiculous nickname.  You didn’t rob or murder us after one night.”

“How do you know I won’t?”  Jim asked, raising his eyebrows up and down playfully.

Bones rolled his eyes.  “You don’t seem like the type, Kid.  So, you want it?”

“Yeah, sure Bones.” 

Maybe he should have mentioned that he had stolen and murdered before… when he was thirteen.  He had been so hungry.  They had all been so hungry.


End file.
